Sundays
by Sant
Summary: Returning through time had many complications, but Harry had never expected this. Not of himself and certainly not of Aunt Petunia. :One Shot:


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**Sundays**

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There was a strange feeling of completeness to it all, a warm kind of soft that engulfed him like a want of better things. It hadn't always been that way, of course. At first everything had been sharp, messy and unplanned. It was rough and painful back then, still everything always was, right?

Sundays, their Sundays. Time alone, together, closer in the warmth. He hadn't really understood it the first few times, especially why he had allowed it. He had felt so exposed and empty, a chilling need of acceptance.

Starved for closeness, hungry for the warmth, it was something they shared now. It had taken time and careful thought on Harry's part to actually grasp it. Yet, they were the same in a way, like that.

He hadn't had an interest at first, hadn't felt safe, nor had he wanted to, but all that had changed. It became so different later, like it was now. She wanted his thoughts now, wanted him to feel, wanted his want of it.

It felt good. There was an intimate sharing, a crossing of thoughts that just made everything better. It wasn't just Sundays anymore. It was happening when he felt bad, when she did or when there was simply time. It made the pain go away somehow and it made him accepted.

Aunt Petunia accepted him.

Aunt Petunia's Harry.

Aunt Petunia's good boy.

Harry gently rolled out of bed. The floor was firm beneath his feet. It was such a perfectly ordinary thing, but it still felt oddly wrong. She was facing away from him, not registering that he was no longer lying next to her.

He picked up his bath towel from the chair in the corner and caught a brief glimpse of the backyard through the window as he did so. It was late afternoon he guessed, it was hard to tell with the cloud cover. He looked back at the clock on the nightstand. No, just past twelve, must be a rainy day then.

Harry stepped quietly across the floor and walked out into the hallway. Aunt Petunia was still out cold from her faint. He closed the door carefully, watching her for any signs of movement.

A few lazy steps to the right found him in the bathroom. The showerhead surged to life as he stepped in beneath it. It was warm and embracing. Steam rose around him and hung in the air as he dipped underneath the stream and slunk gently to the floor.

Two months ago this would have been unthinkable, inconceivable even, that heat should be wasted on the Freak. _Harry_ got to use it though, especially afterwards. It had been such a foreign thing at first, to hear his name flow across his aunt's lips and yet oddly soothing. It meant something to him, something substantial, he just couldn't pinpoint what that was.

It had changed him to hear it but it seemed to also have changed Aunt Petunia to say it, even though she only said it when they were alone.

Harry rubbed at his arms, feeling the water roll over his fingers. Aunt Petunia had changed rather drastically, because of their Sundays. Uncle Vernon hadn't been able to understand it, but Harry knew why. She walked differently, she was surer of herself, happier and more content. Two weeks after the first, she had started shaving everywhere. At first Harry didn't understand why, but it became very obvious later that night.

He was actually grateful to her for having done it. He wouldn't have wanted to with the hair, but it was so very different to touch after she started shaving. Still he had grown accustomed to it. It was a perfectly ordinary thing now. It was just part of the process, if you could call it that.

He huddled himself into a ball. Being in the shower always brought these strange thoughts to his mind. He somehow started analyzing everything that happened over the day or the past week. He couldn't stop himself from wondering about things, sexual things.

What would happen when he started school? What would he do with this need inside him then?

His mind fluttered to the possibility of being able to be with Luna. She was just nuts enough to go for it. He'd say something about imaginary beats that hid inside him and forced him to feel bad, but that she could help him. His mind had it almost perfectly planned, how she would accept it all as a perfectly logical thing and then they'd have sex, but Luna would just think it was a regular thing.

Harry turned his head and looked away, as though there were accusing eyes staring at him from the opposite wall. He shuddered and felt his face flush. He was hard at the thought of it. He sighed woefully. Had he become some sort of pervert? Why was sex such a large part of his thinking?

His imaginings took on more life as he wished, wanted and needed to be held, understood and accepted. If only there would be sharp rap on the door. If only she would call out.

"Harry?"

It wasn't really there, there was no sound. She hadn't said anything, she wasn't even there. Yet somehow the silence had called his name.

"Yes, Aunt Petunia?" His voice sounded wrong, disturbing the quiet.

The imaginary noise of the door opening settled around the room and an invisible Aunt Petunia stepped inside, her nonexistent emotions travelling through the air.

"What's the matter?" a melodic voice asked, quite unlike his Aunt.

"I-I don't know." He wanted to cry on her, wanted her to really be there.

She closed the door behind her and heard the cloth of her nightgown being pulled off, saw her do so even though it shouldn't have been possible. He moved forward as her presence slid the shower wall closed. She adjusted the shower head for a moment, yet the flow of the water on his back was never disturbed. Harry leaned back into the emptiness of her nonbeing.

"What were you thinking about?"

He felt embarrassed at being vulnerable like this, that he was responding to her touch, everything was so conflicted inside him. He sighed into the awkward silence.

"Are you worried I'll be angry?" the voice asked primly.

He nodded.

"I don't like it when you are." his voice was trembling, though it felt foolish.

She pulled him in tight to her and kissed his cheek. He could feel her heartbeat against his back, her softness against his skin and yet he couldn't. It was so nice and comforting at the same time as it was arousing. It made him feel a strange kind of emptiness in his stomach to be feeling and not feeling. There was a kind of rightness to it that simply couldn't be attained by actual contact.

"I won't be mad. I'll just listen until I can answer without sounding angry." It was so unlike her, just exactly what he wanted her to say.

Harry sat up slightly bending his head forward. He didn't want to accidentally look at the empty wall behind him, to confirm what his mind knew all too well. He didn't need visual confirmation.

"It's about Uncle Vernon." Harry blinked at his own words. It was?

"Oh?"

"Well he's been looking at you a lot lately and well..." he sighed, it was so hard to get out. Why did he always feel like he was ten years old when they spoke?

He felt her stir behind him. She pulled him closer, he reluctantly allowed it, yet there was no movement. There was no one to fall against, nothing but the cold of the wall and he did not wish to be reminded of that, so he simply sat still, imagining.

"Are you trying to say, that you don't want me to be intimate with my husband?"

He twitched involuntarily. He looked down, feeling ashamed.

"It really bothers you..." there was something strange in her voice. She almost sounded like she was smiling. He wished she would.

"Oh Harry, " she said, nuzzling into his hair, "my silly little Harry. Vernon doesn't think of sex that way." Her voice changed becoming hard. "To him, it's just a necessity, something to keep me quiet. It was different before Dudley was born, or rather before Vernon got too big to get what little he had, up!"

Harry felt his ears burn, he wasn't sure he was supposed to hear this. He felt a surge of panic as her hand closed around him from behind. Why did he want this? Why was he so possessive of her? Why did he need this reinforcement, even if it was simply empty words issuing from his own mouth?

"Your different, Harry," he told himself heavily, a hand stroking the stiffness. "What we have is different." she sounded like she was smiling. "I don't want to be with Vernon anymore," Harry closed his eyes and tried to hide the exited breath he took, but he couldn't hide how he responded. "Good," she whispered, "I don't want you worrying about this," her thumb brushed his tip, "I want you to want me..."

He closed his eyes. He could feel himself wanting to cry, to cry for the words spoken, and because they weren't actually being said.

"Just you, Harry," there was a possessive tingle in his back and she seemed to know it, licking her lips.

It was a strange place to be emotionally, it wasn't confined to being just one thing or at one end of an emotional spectrum. It was a jumble of many things. Why did it feel so wrong to think about and yet so right doing? Why did it excite him to do and think about, while thoughts of being discovered sickened him?

He often wished there could be more to it than this, this physical. Why wasn't she the same in his mind as she was in reality? The two Aunts didn't even look the same, smell the same or taste the same. He couldn't remember what the aunt in his mind tasted like, exactly he could never pin the taste down.

His mind made the whole experience all the more confusing, though hearing how she enjoyed what he was doing made him feel a lot better about it. His mental maturity nagged at him, pulling his thoughts from the want of being held, being understood. Why hadn't he prepared or at least done more?

He had had great plans in the beginning. Plans that included everyone he'd known and how he was going to change everything. The problem had been the waiting. Years had passed and the plans had changed, he had changed.

When he had altered reality it wasn't so he could go back and enjoy his Aunt's embrace, yet here he was. He had quickly found his plans to be useless, most hadn't even survived the first week of waiting. His memories had lost their immediacy, they faded and became more like dreams or past life regression. His new experiences seemed far more real than his unaltered past life.

His thoughts changed again, fluttering emotions. His sexuality awakened. Why didn't his thoughts stick to one subject at a time?

These kinds of pleasures that he shared with Aunt Petunia now, would have frightened him before, sickened him even. Yet he was enjoying it.

Why was he though? Was it some kind of perversion on his part? Had she turned him into this, or had it always been below the surface? Was he some kind of perverted sex fiend now? Would he be able to control himself at Hogwarts?

He knew well enough what his Aunt got out of it, but what reason did he himself have? Why did this feel so right and so wrong? Why did the wrong make it feel better than if it would have been completely right? How did wrong make right?

Images took over his mind. They had never been together in the shower. Not once had she wanted him here and yet this is where his fantasies took him.

Aunt Petunia trembled and a gurgled moaning wail erupted from her mouth as salty sweet liquid flowed into his mouth. His stiffness pulsed with it. There was something oddly satisfying about this. Like it was a power he had over her. It was addictive, at times like this he could barely restrain himself from talking to her, asking her pointed question about what he was doing, holding her on the brim of her need before allowing her release.

There was a dark need somewhere inside him for it, and it frightened him at the same time as he wanted to let it out. He wanted to be in control, to be the one who was needed, the one who could produce the best feeling.

His hand slid across her inner thigh. So personal and close was this feeling, and yet familiar. The wrongness made it feel more right, somehow.

But why, though? Why? Why did he need and crave this attention? Why did his hands grow cold with need?

He didn't want to be a pervert. Couldn't all of this just be silly daydreams a young male would have as he came into sexuality, conflicted perhaps, but not wrong? Was he truly destined to be some kind of monster, who would pray on those who wouldn't be able to tell?

What would become of him as he grew older? What of the day he might have a daughter? Would this fiendishness awaken then and claim his flesh, urge him to do as he was now with Aunt Petunia?

Silent tears fell down Harry's cheeks, travelling well marked paths.

How he wished his mind could be certain of the answer.

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Author's Note

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Yet another of the scenes I have written for the Potter universe. This one was written with the intent to provide a more sexually aware Harry. I thought that the idea of Aunt Petunia both desparing and loving her nephew was interesting. I just didn't want the love part to be of any real substance, but instead be a strange kind of affectionate lust.

In order to remove myself from thoughts of child molestaition and rape, I had plans on placing this scene within the realms of a redo fic. Harry having somehow caused himself to go backward in time would retain his mind but not his power.

With this piece I wanted to deal with Harry's own confusion with clearer thoughts than I have not seen other Authors do. It has annoyed me that most redo fics with Harry in his mid twenties are written by Authors who have not reached that age themselves.

It was my hope that I would be able to mix his two ages to the extent that there would be a more realistic kind of maturity than I have come to expect from redo fics. I wanted to show the emotional confusion of his young body with the clear cut questions of his maturer self, I have no idea if I succeded.

Through this experience I had hoped to make Harry's understanding of the oposite sex believable. If there is one thing that grates on my nerves when it comes to fanfiction, it is the innevitable female superior smirks when they thinks themselves clever and more ingenious than the boys. I don't personally believe in the whole "gender war" bullshit and perhaps my own upbringing has spoiled me, but I have never found any woman particularly difficult to understand and it bugs me to see the males in the fics not getting things because it's a "girl issue" or whatever. Especially as these are never difficult to understand or their intentions hard to grasp with more than a casual glance.

It also grates me that Harry doesn't have the balls to actually stand up for himself just becuase his acuser has tits. Is it too much to ask that just once he actually slap the offending bint and give her a perfectly reasoned response before leaving her in the cold?

Maybe it's just me but I wouldn't take a comment like "you certainly have him well trained" without giving a sarchastic reply as to why I'm not a dog. It amazes me everytime I see Harry or someone else just sit there and take the abuse just because the woman saying it is there girlfriend, if anything that would piss me off more!

Sigh. I shall endevour to stop ranting now, and hope that you will understand my frustration for the critisism it is. I hope that somone else shall be inspired both by the writing and my rant to see what I have seen and hopefully give Harry some balls.

Sant.


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